


That Perfect Moment

by Clocksmith



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, F/F, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Murder, serial killers!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:28:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24823102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clocksmith/pseuds/Clocksmith
Summary: Beneath the ground, somewhere safe, Kate and Max help those who cannot help themselves.
Relationships: Maxine "Max" Caulfield & Kate Marsh, Maxine "Max" Caulfield/Kate Marsh
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	That Perfect Moment

Most people believe death is an end. That life consists of just that; life. The day you die is the day that everything comes to a close and the curtain falls on everything that makes you who you are.

They’re wrong. It’s not the end of your story.

“N-No, wait please–“

It’s the start of a new chapter.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t–” the sinner squeals. “I swear. Oh God, I swear to God–“

It doesn’t matter how you get there, or when. We all reach the next chapter, eventually. That chapter has a title.

 _Repentance._ And some people require that chapter more than others.

“It’s okay,” I say, resting a gentle arm on her arm. My thumb strokes gently at her skin. “You’ll be free soon.”

“But–“

“You’ll be with God, soon. Only he can help you now.”

“Wait, please. _Please._ I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Tears trickle down her cheeks. “G-God forgives, right? I don’t– You don’t need to do this. Please. Please.” The harlot attempts to pull against the zip-ties. Her wrists stay completely still, hands a blistered purple from the pressure. Beneath her, the steel chair doesn’t so much as budge an inch. “God forgives! _Please._ He forgives. Please, I’m begging you, don’t do this.” An ugly sound crawls out her throat, like a greedy frog choking on a large spider. “Please. I’ll do anything.”

I take her head softly in my hands.

“God is merciful and gracious,” I whisper. “He is slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness.”

I plant a chaste kiss on her forehead.

“Yes. He will forgive you.”

I step back and fetch the kitchen knife from the table.

“He forgives, so that I don’t have to.”

The knife slides easily into her abdomen. Nice and slow.

“U-Uck.” The sinner whimpers. She heaves. “Plu– S-Stchop.”

In her new life, she will be free of pain. She will be free to cleanse her soul from the sins she has committed. But the suffering she has caused is real. It’s physical.

I need her to feel that pain. If she doesn’t, she will never know.

When the knife goes in the second time, that’s when she screams. Something small bursts inside her and the blood flows freely down the blade.

Three. Four.

On five, I push harder. _Harder._

Soft bone cracks beneath my weight and she wails again. Only quitter, this time.

And much like how she left that poor man in the hotel, I prepare to leave her. She will die here, in pain. Wet with blood and tears.

It isn’t as she did to him. I won’t replicate that.

“I-I… H-Help… Ple…pleugh–“

But it’s what she deserves.

I leave the knife in her lap, so she can see it. Her head tips down, neck weak and muscles unwilling. She may not last as long as I had hoped. The fifth cut may have been bit too much.

At least I know for next time.

Here, under the ground, she won’t be heard. If not for the bunker itself, then the empty, dilapidated barn above does nothing to invite suspicion. If you were to keep one or more of the main doors open, even speaking from this far beneath the surface is inaudible,

She’s as good as gone.

Preparations to clean up the tools are put on hold, though. I hear the door at the top creak open. As technologically sounds as it is, it’s still a door. It’s not a quiet thing.

It’s enough to let me know someone else is here.

Step. Step.

_Step._

The sounds are soft, muffled. Rubber soles.

The tension of thin plastic gloves stretched thin.

Then a sigh.

“Hey, Kate,” Max says, appearing from the hall. “She still with us?”

“For a minute. Maybe less,” I admit. Hold habits rise back to the surface as my fingers tangle nervously into each other. “I pushed too hard into the sternum.”

Max notices. “It’s okay. There’s still time.”

She wanders over to her camera, positioned directly in front of our guest.

“We can catch her last breath.”

Not her favorite kind of shot, I know. Part of her will be disappointed in that, even if she doesn’t outright tell me.

But at the same time, I know she won’t hold it against me.

It’s just a small bump in our grand design.

I hear the click of the camera. Once, twice. Three times after that and the flashes begin, despite the organized lighting and background set behind the subject. Max works her magic, shifting the camera minutely every few shots, adjusting the focus, twisting the lens.

I know she won’t hold this shot against me, because this is her passion. There isn’t really a shot she doesn’t like; she often tells me. Just some she enjoys more than others.

The lighting overhead dims as she moves the camera again, this time closer. If our subject wasn’t restrained, she could easily kick Max or the camera to the ground.

But she is restrained. So, she doesn’t.

More clicks, more personal shots. Of the feet and legs, coated in trails of thin red. The stomach, almost gurgling the blood it so desperately needs to pull back from the slices cut into the body.

Despite my mistake, Max spends several seconds longer on the chest than she did below it. As her subject struggles to breath, I suppose I can see the symbolism in it. Dead center between the breasts, stretched ever so slightly by heaving, desperate breaths. A gape where the air can escape… even if that isn’t quite how it works.

Then, finally, Max moves to the face.

The breathes comes slower, fewer and far-between. Using a gloved hand, Max tilts the woman’s head back up. The eyes are dim, but responsive.

The pupils, wide as they are, center on Max.

Breathe in.

_Click._

Breathe out.

_Click._

“You know,” Max begins, looking into her subject’s eyes. “I’m not all that religious. I don’t know if you’re going somewhere after this.”

Breathe in.

_Click._

The next exhale comes hard, rasped and vibrating in a way that, perhaps, could be interoperated as an attempt to utter a word.

_Click._

Whatever that word is, was, or should have been is lost in her pain.

“But I’m still glad you’re here.”

Breathe in…

Click.

And–

A final snap of the camera immortalizes the woman’s final moment. There’s barely a breath to capture, really. Merely air flowing out of the place it once had been.

But that’s the shot Max has been waiting for.

“Got it!”

That makes me smile, a little.

Even as we are, now, in the Dark Room, it’s these little moments that make me glad that we’re in this together.


End file.
